


just take my hand and run

by openended



Series: i don't look for trouble (but trouble looks for me) [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (brief mention thereof), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Beginnings, Blood Magic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Established Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Guest Starring: Cole, Illnesses, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Origin Story, Pregnancy, Reunions, Worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of assorted tumblr prompts for Kylie/Krem (and, every so often, just Kylie)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. if you die - i'm gonna kill you

She’s not a healer. Her barriers protect, and she can clear residual magic after a fight, but her ability to heal injuries goes as far as listening to Stitches shout out instructions, and having a high tolerance for the sight of blood and bone.

And her ability to heal _sickness_ is nonexistent. She’s in the way more than she is helping, so she stands banished in the corner of the tiny room, arms wrapped around herself in a poor imitation of a hug while Stitches - with his mouth and nose covered, it won’t help things to have their healer come down with the same illness that’s swept through half the countryside and most of the human Chargers - and a local dwarf herbalist try to bring Krem’s fever down.

Rocky nudges his shoulder into her side. “They’ve got dinner downstairs.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve gotta eat, Sparks.” Elves may not be able to catch whatever this is, but they’re quite capable of toppling over if they run themselves ragged worrying about the sick. “Come on, Stitches’ll get you if anything changes.”

With one last look at Krem, his skin pale and clammy, dark hollows under his eyes, she follows Rocky out of the room.

***

Kylie leaps to her feet when Stitches comes down the stairs, handkerchief pulled down to hang around his neck. Skinner and Dalish quickly grasp their mugs, keeping them from sloshing when she nearly upsets the table.

He talks to the Chief in low tones first, and Kylie fidgets, unable to stand still. The Chief nods, but his expression doesn’t change, doesn’t give anything away, and she can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. She rubs the back of her neck nervously.

“His fever is manageable,” Stitches starts, when he comes over to talk to the rest of them. “As for the rest,” he shrugs, “we need to wait. He’s still asleep.”

“Can I…” she points upward.

He nods, and she thinks she does an admirable job of not actually _running_ across the tavern and up the stairs.

***

It’s instinct, to curl up next to him. The bed’s not that big, but neither is she. Kylie tucks herself against him, sliding one arm beneath his neck and the other across his waist. He’s still warm to the touch, but not the burning, worrying heat of earlier. 

She smoothes his hair back from his forehead and places a gentle kiss on his temple. “If you die,” she swallows, “if you die, I _will_ kill you. And I don’t want to have to do that. So don’t. Please.”


	2. she's missing, not dead

Chief silently sets another tankard of ale in front of him on his way to Stitches and Dalish. Everyone seems inclined to leave him to his brooding, which Krem’s more than content with. 

They got the news two days ago - _did you hear, something happened at the Conclave, no one got out alive_ \- and it’s still not sunk in. He’s not sure it ever will. He traces the whorls in the wood table, remembering her laughter as she set off on her own for the job, telling him he worries too much and she’ll be back in two weeks.

He exhales and pushes his hair out of his face. He needs a haircut, but Kylie usually does that for him. The ale doesn’t even taste like much, and neither did dinner. 

Most of the tavern’s left for the night when Rocky climbs up into the seat across from him. Krem’s four tankards in and working on his fifth, biding time until enough Chargers have gone to bed that he can turn in without drawing too much attention.

“Alright,” Rocky says, “I got this from an elf, who heard it from a dwarf, who heard it from a Tal’Vashoth who was traveling through the Frostbacks.”

Krem blinks, immediately doubting whatever comes out of Rocky’s mouth next.

“Someone survived the Conclave. A female Dalish, mage, with a particular penchant for lightning.”

Krem feels his heart lift, but tries not to let it lift too far. “She’s not the only elf with storm magic,” he says, though he hears the lightness in his voice and can’t help but hope.

Rocky shrugs. “Maybe. But if anyone knows how to survive that shit, it’s Sparks.”


	3. tarantism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the urge to overcome melancholy by dancing

This isn’t forever. Kylie gone a lot of the time, Chief sometimes gone with her, him stuck at Skyhold unless Cullen directs him to take a contingent of the Chargers and whack something until it cooperates, it’s not forever. He knows that. But sometimes it feels like forever.

Krem sighs, chin propped in one hand, and watches his friends. Dalish and Skinner and Rocky wrapped up in their game of Wicked Grace - always Wicked Grace with them, Rocky convinced one day he’ll find out if Dalish’s staff is good for cheating as well as aiming. Stitches trying to smooth talk the curly blonde-haired warrior who showed up from Highever last week, the one with tits not nearly as flat as her armor would suggest, so much that Krem considered asking her for binding tips. Grim’s already sealed it with her friend, a tiny archer who’s managed to match Grim tankard-for-tankard.

The music picks up, and Krem sighs again.

“Laughing, joking, dancing on the tables. She pulls him from his seat, catching him before he trips. When she smiles, his heart gets lighter.”

Krem slowly turns and finds Cole sitting next to him. The boy (man? spirit? Krem doesn’t know; Kylie’s just always called him _Cole_ ) still unnerves him a bit, though less so now that Cole calls him _he_.

“She laughs when he twirls her, strong hands on her small waist, he’d never drop her. Her voice, his favorite sound.”

“Okay,” Krem says quickly, stopping Cole before he goes any further. All of Skyhold knows about him and Kylie, but all of Skyhold doesn’t need to know exactly how he feels about her. “Please…stay out of my memory.”

“You were sad,” Cole says. “That night was happy.” He hops off his stool and disappears into the tavern’s shadows.

Krem stares into the shadows for long moments after Cole leaves. Then he smiles and takes his tankard over to the table with his friends, and elbows his way into Wicked Grace.


	4. we're coming home now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: you can put your cold feet on me

Kylie has a tiny house to herself. Shack, really, it’s only one room, but it’s all hers and it has a door and a fireplace and isn’t nearly as cold as the barracks the Chargers are pointed toward.

Krem almost feels like he should apologize to his friends. _Sorry you lot get stuck sleeping here where it’s freezing and the Chief snores, but my girlfriend’s got a nice warm room up the hill that she doesn’t have to share with any of you_. 

But none of them seem to care, and Dalish’s “bow” is pretty good at keeping everyone warm when she’s feeling like it, so he slings his pack over his shoulder, waves, and leaves the barracks. The sound of wolf whistles and exaggerated fake kissing noises follow him out the door.

He’s friends with assholes, that’s for sure, but he’s going to be the one with a good night’s sleep.

Haven’s freezing and Krem trudges through the snow and up the steps to the little house with bright lights in the windows and two guards standing outside the door. He knocks lightly and then lets himself in, pointedly not acknowledging the guards. She’s not technically imprisoned anymore, and he overheard the Seeker say that the guards were for Kylie’s “safety,” but he has his doubts about their true purpose.

She looks up from her book and smiles, wide and bright, and all his irritation at the guards falls away. It’s just her, only her. They’ve not had much time alone together since he showed up at Haven last week, trying to figure out if she really was the one to crawl out of the Temple, or it was some other Dalish elf with a propensity for lightning. All he really wants is to curl up beside her and fall asleep with her in his arms.

Kylie pulls the blankets back for him, revealing her skinny legs and bare feet. She gestures with a finger, and he knows that she has the same idea he does. He quickly pulls off his gear and removes his bindings, and changes into something more suitable for sleep. He slides into the bed - _definitely_ more comfortable than anything in those barracks - and lets her situate herself against him.

She settles for her back pressed against his chest, and he tugs the blankets back up around them both. She rubs her toes up and down his calf and he grimaces - freezing, as always. But he doesn’t mind, he never minds, because it’s Kylie. He brushes her hair out of the way and kisses her cheek.

Neither of them are quite ready for sleep yet, and she opens her book again and begins to read aloud. It’s some terrible romance adventure thing that gets the details of battle all wrong and has an improbably flexible female love interest. But he doesn’t mind that, either. Because it’s Kylie’s voice.

It’s Kylie’s voice, and Kylie’s cold toes, and she’s alive.


	5. that's the beauty of a secret

He kisses the inside of her wrist. His lips linger on her smooth skin, and she shivers.

It’s such an intimate gesture. Almost too intimate, for how long they’ve been together and how much they haven’t done beyond kissing when they’re far enough away from the others. But she closes her eyes when he does it again, a little thrill tingling in her spine. She slides closer, into his lap, and twines her fingers with his.

The instinct to run, that pit of panic that sits in the stomach of every romance novel heroine she’s ever read about, doesn’t come. Kylie’s been waiting for three weeks for that panic, only to feel happier with every stolen glance or kiss or touch of his hand. Maybe all the books are wrong.

Krem places a soft kiss atop her head and rests their joined hands on her stomach. She settles into him, tugging his arms just a little tighter, and smiles. They’ll have to head back to camp soon, and hunt down dinner on the way, but they have a few more minutes together before anyone considers sending a search party. A few more minutes just the two of them sitting beside the riverbank.

She squeezes his hands. The books got this wrong, too. Slow is better, slow is comfortable, slow is silently sitting in the lap of the boy she likes, slow is just being with him before anyone else knows about them. They’ll eventually get to the part she’s sure the books got right - the part about removing clothes and heated kisses, though she doesn’t have enough of a bosom to heave properly - but for now she’s content with quiet, little kisses and held hands when no one else is looking.

“We should get back,” he says reluctantly as the sun starts to dip below the tops of the trees.

“Yeah,” she agrees with an exaggerated sigh, and climbs out of his arms and stands. She offers him her hand, though he far from needs the help up.

Krem clasps her hand and doesn’t let go, even once he’s standing. She looks up at him - he nearly towers over her - and smiles. She lifts up on her toes and he dips his head, and they meet in the middle for one last kiss. He pulls away first, and rests his forehead on hers.

As much as she wants to stay here for another hour, Chief _will_ send a search party if they’re not back soon; and then the others will find out, and quiet moments like this will be different. Not bad or gone, but someone will always know, and it won’t be just theirs.

She steps out of his embrace, but keeps their hands linked as they head back to camp.


	6. it was the age of screaming

Eighteen. Eighteen beams across the ceiling of Josephine’s office. Eighteen widthwise and nine lengthwise. Nine and a half if you count the one that hasn’t been repaired yet because the dwarven architect Leliana brought in (of _course_ Leliana knew a dwarven architect) said it wasn’t a load-bearing beam and could wait.

Josephine’s been talking for the past half hour, of that much Kylie’s sure, but she has no idea what Josephine’s said besides, generally, _history_.

It’s abysmally dull. Kylie considers herself intelligent, but her form of intelligence is knowing how far she can push the This Isn’t A Staff, It’s A Walking Stick act before someone notices the poorly-hidden skull at the top. Her form of intelligence is distinctly not Which Noble Did What To Which Other Noble When. The nobles and dates and cities - a handful of which change names with some regularity every fifty years - float around her in the air like dust mites.

Kylie follows the path of one particular actual dust mite until it disappears in the sunlight beaming in through the window, and she sighs. These lessons are supposed to be helpful. They’re supposed to be preparing her for the ball.

They’re supposed to be teaching her everything she needs to know to really be The Inquisitor, a well-read, well-rounded leader with an education that didn’t come from a series of street fights and a twelve-year employment under a Ben Hassrath spy.

(Nevermind that no one’ll believe the well-read or well-rounded bit. She’s a Dalish elf, and a mage at that. No one she could possibly impress with reciting Nevarran royalty back to the age of Towers will see past the vallaslin on her face. _Niceness before knives_ , Josephine’s fond of saying, which Kylie thinks only has a chance to work if people aren’t already assuming you’ll start with the knife.)

She exhales slowly, puffing out her cheeks. Ancient, Divine, Glory, Towers, Black, Exalted, Steel, Storm, Blessed, Dragon. She has that much memorized, at least.

Kylie likes Josephine, really, but if this lesson on suspicious deaths of Highever Teyrns doesn’t end soon, she’s going to start a one-woman Age of _Screaming_.


	7. all things under the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt, from the non-sexual acts of intimacy meme: _having their hair washed by the other_ (Trespasser spoilers, in case people are still avoiding that)

Solas took her arm.

Chief and Dorian carried her back through the eluvian, Cole not far behind babbling about something Krem can’t remember. All he remembers is the look Chief gave him as he and Dorian rushed past, and two hurried words: _she’s alive_. 

The healers wouldn’t let him in for two and a half days. _She needs her rest_ , they said. As if he’d do anything to disturb her. He’d just planned to sit there beside her, maybe read aloud from whatever trashy romance serial he found in her bag. So instead he sits on the floor in the hallway outside her room. A week ago, they were sitting on the room’s balcony, eating a late dinner of cheese and bread and fruit. She’d tossed a berry in the air and caught it with her mouth, and he asked her to marry him. 

The ring’s in his pocket - she gave it to him for safekeeping while she went through the mirror. A week ago he was proposing, a week ago she was saying _yes_ , and now he’s stuck in the hallway while strange healers fuss over her.

Rocky brings him tea and Dalish brings him food, and the Chargers set up camp outside her room. Chief even joins them after a while, blocks the entire hallway when he stretches his legs out in front of him. One of the healers - the dwarf, the one who’s been giving Krem all the updates she can - glares, but Chief just smiles at her and she steps over him.

But when all the healers finally leave and the dwarf tells him he can go in, the others just smile at him and let him have this first moment alone. They’re a bunch of assholes, his friends are, but they care.

She’s awake, awake and staring at the fingers on her right hand. What remains of her left arm is wrapped in a bandage, and it freaks him out a little now that he’s seeing just how hurt she is, but mostly he’s relieved. He feels like he’s been holding his breath for three days, and when Kylie smiles at him, he finally exhales. He rushes across the room to her bed, aware that it looks all too much like a scene from the novel he was going to read to her.

“I’m okay,” she says, clasping his hand with hers. He leans forward, presses his forehead against hers. “I’m okay,” she repeats, squeezing his hand. 

Krem wants to say something, _anything_ , but there’s a lump holding tight in his throat, blocking any words. He kisses her forehead, smoothes her hair back, and rests his brow against hers again.

After a moment, she scoots over as best she can, and he understands the invitation. He pulls away just far enough and just long enough to unlace and kick off his boots, and then he lies down in the bed next to her. Kylie curls into him, pressing her body close against his. He wraps both arms around her small frame and holds her tight.

He doesn’t cry, and neither does she. But they lie in the silent comfort of each other until the sun begins to set and there’s a knock on the door, and a slight creak as it opens.

An elf - one of the Inquisition’s, by the uniform - with a basket of soaps in one hand and a stack of towels in the other. “Oh!” she says, seeing the two of them together. “I’m sorry, Your Worship, I…”

“We tried to tell you,” Rocky says from his spot opposite the door. Muffled laughter comes from the hallway.

Krem kisses Kylie’s temple and then rises from the bed. “I’ll take care of her,” he says to the terrified woman, taking the basket and towels from her.

“There’s…there’s runes on the side of the tub, for heating. And a knob in the wall, it’ll pour in water.”

“Thank you,” he says.

She bows, and then backs out of the room so quickly, Krem’s afraid she’s going to trip over her own feet and land flat on her back on top of Skinner. But she doesn’t fall, and Skinner gets out of the way, and Stitches throws him a wink and pulls the door shut.

Kylie snorts, that same ungraceful unladylike snort he loves because it always prefaces laughter, and he turns to find her turned halfway over, her back to the door, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. She looks over her shoulder at him and rolls flat onto her back and bursts out laughing.

“A bath, Your Worship?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Yes, please,” she says between gulps of air, trying to catch her breath. “I haven’t had a bath since before we went through that last eluvian.”

Krem sets the towels and the basket out of the way on a small table, and turns the knob; water starts to pour into the tub. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he teases.

A pillow hits him in the back of his head.

He turns and winks at her.

When the tub’s full, he touches the runes to bring the water up to the temperature she likes. They flash orange underneath his fingertips, and the water begins to steam. He walks back to the bed and helps her sit up. Her arm isn’t the only thing hurt, it’s just the biggest, and she’s unsteady on her feet as they walk over to the tub. 

“Can that get wet?” he asks, pointing at the bandage.

“One of the healers put a waterproofing spell on it,” she says. “Can you help with…?” she tugs at her clothes.

Nodding, he ducks and sets her arm around his shoulder for balance while he helps her out of her pants. Her tunic comes off next, and Krem would like a word or ten with whoever put her in a tunic with buttons all the way down. Her breastband must’ve been cut off when they first brought her back, and when he slides her smallclothes to the floor, she’s undressed. 

Still leaning on him, Kylie gingerly lifts one leg and steps into the tub. “Oh, that’s glorious,” she sighs, and steps in completely.

He keeps his arm around her waist, supporting her while she slowly eases the rest of her body down into the water. When she has a good grip on the edge of the tub with her right arm, he lets go. He dries off his arm and drags a tiny stool around the tub, so he can sit behind her.

Krem presses a kiss to her forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment. He’ll start with her hair.  



	8. they say here comes a hurricane (trouble is her middle name)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ten pounds of trouble in a five-pound sack

Normally, he’s not one for touching strangers. He’s big and they can be jumpy, and because he’s big and they can be jumpy they tend to misinterpret him as starting a fight.

(Which, to be fair, he is - about 65% of the time. But 35% of the time, he’s trying to _stop_ a fight before it starts. Right now is part of that 35%.)

But the kid’s in over her head, her con’s badly-planned and she’s about to be found out, and that staff she’s holding is in no way a walking staff. She’ll be dragged off to the Circle, or worse, if she doesn’t stop messing with these people.

He settles his hand, huge and scarred, on the elf’s tiny shoulder. She looks up at him - a slip of a thing, he could break her in half without breaking a sweat - and glares. She glares like he isn’t ten times her size, like his hand isn’t bigger than her entire head, like he doesn’t have horns too wide for most doorframes. She glares up at him with bright green eyes set in dark skin, through bright blonde hair in desperate need of a trim. She glares very, _very_ hard.

Bull wonders if he’ll get extra credit when he dies for not laughing at her intimidation attempt. He tilts his head. “Stop this,” he says, and removes his hand.

She narrows her eyes and looks behind him, to Grim and Rocky, sizing all three of them up. Bull’s lip twitches.

“Fine,” she says, looking back up at Bull. But she doesn’t deflate, doesn’t back down, doesn’t relax her shoulders. Doesn’t ease up on the glare one bit.

The farmer looks at him, and then her, and then back to him, and back to her. He shrugs and walks away, into his house.

“You owe me dinner,” she says.

Bull blinks. He’s not opposed to the idea, she certainly looks like she could do with a hot meal or two, but there’s a challenge in her voice. She _expects_ him to argue and decline. She expects him to just leave her in this village full of people who are growing more pissed at her by the minute. He’d planned to leave her, honestly; they’ve got work north up the coast, and this isn’t his problem. But she lifts an eyebrow and glances sideways, to the right, and it’s the first time he’s seen her flinch. “Why?” He knows why, he just wants to hear her say it.

“Because that,” she gestures with her staff to the farmer’s house and the closed door. The curtains flick - the farmer’s still watching. “Was going to pay for dinner. You took that away, you owe me dinner.”

Finally, Bull gives into the urge to smile. “C’mon. But not in this town. You need to get out of here before someone decides to tell the templars about you.”

Her shoulders soften and she blinks, shocked. “Wait, seriously?”

Bull looks over the top of her head, sees two men running for the Chantry. “Yeah. Time to go, kid.” He and Grim and Rocky take up defensive positions around her as they walk out of the village, just in case anyone gets any bright ideas.

“What’s your name?” he asks, once they’re far enough away from the village that no one will bother following them.

“Kyla -” she hesitates, purses her lips together, and frowns. “Kylie,” she says, with more conviction this time.

Everyone’s got stories. He’s been picking up strays for years, knows when someone’s sticking around long enough to tell theirs. Two months, tops, and he’ll know her story. “I’m The Iron Bull.”


	9. unconventional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they've built their own family
> 
> (takes place ten or so years after Trespasser)
> 
> sweet pea - delicate pleasures  
> witch hazel - a spell

Kylie shifts, sliding herself further into the tub. She sinks down until the hot water covers her shoulders, and she leans her head back against the cushion on the edge. The heat feels divine, working into her skin to soothe stiff muscles and aching joints. She sighs in content and blows gently against the strawberry- and lemon-scented bubbles collecting by her ears.

Charger bumps the door open with her head and pads over to the tub. She huffs, nuzzling her nose against Kylie’s fingers, looking for chin scratches.

Bracing her feet against the walls of the tub so she doesn’t slip too far, Kylie lets go of the edge and scratches the mabari under her chin. Happy, Charger turns around three times, and lies down on the bath mat for a nap. 

Kylie drops her hand into the tub, and rests her palm over her rounded stomach.

_“Did it work?” Krem asked._

_Kylie squinted into the empty cup, and then down at her stomach. She shrugged. “I don’t feel any different.”_

_Looking up from wrapping the bandage around her palm, the woman tilted her head. “Go home,” she instructed them, “have sex. Come back tomorrow, we’ll see if it took.”_

_Kylie hopped off the table and twined her fingers with Krem’s. “Thank you,” she said._

_The blood mage nodded. “Come back tomorrow. If it did not work, we will try again,” she promised._

Eight times they’d gone back but finally, after three years and nearly giving up, it worked. And now she’s lying in the tub, six months pregnant with her husband’s child. 

The kid kicks against her hand, and she smiles.

Charger lifts her head at the soft knock on the door, sniffs the air, and then lays her head back down on her paws. Krem looks in around the door.

Kylie nods and watches him walk across the room. She stretches upward, meeting him halfway as he bends down for a kiss. She _hmm_ s happily and slides back down when he pulls away and sits on the stool beside her.

“Need anything?”

Charger walks around the tub and lies down again, rests her head on Krem’s feet. He reaches down and scratches her ears.

“Can you make it a little warmer?” She can reach the runes on her own, but they’re on the left side of the tub and it’s an awkward stretch. The prosthesis Dagna created never comes into the bath with her, and she’s taken to not wearing it much lately; it aches in the winter.

Krem touches his fingertips against the runes. They glimmer a soft orange, glowing brighter until he removes his fingers just at the brightness he knows Kylie likes. “Better?”

She nods. “Thanks.”

“Chief asked about names today,” Krem says after a while.

Kylie makes a face, half-squint, half-frown. “Well, we’re not letting him decide,” she says. “I still haven’t forgiven him for _Sparks de la Creme_.” Chief had had a field day trying to combine their nicknames after they got married.

Krem laughs at that. “I told him we were calling them _Kid_ for now.”

“That’s probably what he’ll call them anyway.” She has to admit, _Kid Aclassi_ does have a nice ring to it. She brushes her thumb over her stomach; their child’s settled down for now. “We have three and a half months,” she says, “we’ll figure out a proper name by then.”  



	10. the babysitter’s club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “your kid before five in the morning”

Kylie wakes up to Micah crying. She groans and rolls over onto her stomach, smushing her face into her pillow. The room spins a bit. “No,” she says. 

“Your turn,” Krem says, sounding just as thrilled as she feels.

It is, technically. But she fell asleep a whole two hours ago and also she might still be drunk, or at least well on her way to hungover. Hell if she’s ever listening to Chief’s _one more drink, Sparks_ ever again. This is what she gets for opening her house to the Chargers when the local inn’s full. “Sun’s not up. He’s your kid.”

Krem just groans in response. 

Kylie rolls over onto her back and stares up at the ceiling, willing the room to stay put. She’s just about convinced herself that she can stand up, when Micah suddenly stops crying. He coos happily instead.

Never in his six months of life has Micah simply stopped crying on his own. 

“Odd,” Krem says after a minute.

“Very.” Hesitantly, she pushes herself upright. Everything goes a little slanted and she shuts her eyes. First thing in the morning, she’s banning mead from the house. Forever. 

Slowly, she makes it out of bed and to the door. She cracks the door open, and all the maybe-still-drunk-maybe-hungover melts away at the scene in front of her: Dalish and Skinner sleeping on top of each other on the couch, Rocky snoring softly on the carpet by the fire, Grim passed out slumped in the armchair, Stitches actually underneath the kitchen table.

And Chief in the rocking chair in the corner, Micah swaddled safely in his arms. 

Krem sneaks his arm around her waist. “Should we be concerned about the stories he’s telling him?”

Kylie leans back into him, and listens hard for the quiet words Chief’s whispering. She hears _spiders_ and _giant_ and smiles. That story had a wonderful ending. “He doesn’t understand the difference between his teddy bear and your shield,” she says, glancing up at him. “I think we’re okay.”

Chief looks up in the middle of telling Micah about Dalish and the lightning from her bow. He smiles at them. “Go back to sleep,” he says softly.

“Thank you,” Kylie whispers with a smile, letting Krem tug her back to bed.


End file.
